


God save the Queen.

by delibell



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: AU Kingsman, Angst, F/M, Fluff, In which everyone's alive and sorta happy, Kingsman Family, Kingsman Training, Reader's a sarcastic asshole, Romance, Sorta an AU, Spies & Secret Agents, implied sexual situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-05 17:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12194109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delibell/pseuds/delibell
Summary: The relationship between Statesmen and Kinsgmen is fairly good, could be a bit better though. Various failed mission in the past has put some tension between the two branches, but thankfully, an olive branch, one looking exactly like (Name) (Lastname), is extended and intended to patch up any fights the Cousins had had. She is sent on a secret mission to London along with her new partner Gary 'Eggsy' Unwin to guard some expensive jewels and accidentaly save the world.[SORTA AU]





	1. from america, with love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a couple of notes!  
> since tequila's name isn't made public, i just call him channing (since that's the actors name lololol)  
> also! this is somewhat of an AU where the golden circle hasn't happened (yet) and the two branches already know each other and have worked in the past.  
> i hope you like it! lemme know what you think xx

 The ice cold water running down a lone faucet turns hot and pink once it connects with the hands of yours truly. The bathroom is quiet. Usually after training most would be here, relieving themselves after a beating and/or taking a shower to wash away the grime and tension. None of these fall into the category of your current occupation. You hiss softly when the stream connects with raw knuckles, eye the tares in the skin and cuss lowly, as if afraid that someone might hear you. The pale white lights create illusions, they almost make your head spin: everything is so polished it reflects and turns neon. You look up; see your reflection staring right back at you with a confused, tired and angry face.

“ _Fuck_ …” Another low curse escapes your parted lips as you lean closer to inspect the subtle red peeking out your left nostril, “Fuckin’ Margarita…Name suggest she’d be a lot sweeter…” You mumble to yourself. _Ah_ , yes, now you recall it all in vivid detail.

_The training room was mostly empty, just a few leftover Statesman lurking around: some picked up their bags and left shortly, some stuck around to punch and kick and do some push ups. You and she were the only ones sparring. After a few minutes or so you felt your breath burn in your lungs; you had her pinned and she grunted, tried to elbow your foot away from her neck, but you only pushed harder and in turn, made her angrier. Margarita is a poor fighter, you knew this, everyone there knew this, and that’s why a crowd started to form around you soon after her first tumble to the ground and your ‘Get the fuck up’. Everyone was expecting you to throw in one of your famous kicks and knock some of her teeth out, you even overheard Wine and Ale making bets on how much the poor girl was going to get this time. You got cocky (you usually do). Let a triumphant smile slip on your face as you looked straight into her big blue eyes and were taken off guard from what you saw: rage. Pure, unfiltered rage. She most likely had had enough of you humiliating her in front of the whole agency, honestly – who could blame her ?- and before you realized what’s what she slipped your tight pin, jumped onto her feet and nicked you so hard that your bones rattled._

_A collective gasp and amused, hushed whispers followed right after that, a whistle from Ale. Margarita, or Stacy Simons, shared one last second of victory before tumbling to the ground from exhaustion._

You turn off the faucet. A few drops pick on the side of it and drop with a silent _ping_. “Great…” You utter, eyeing the bruise slowly forming on the bridge of your nose, “Just when I have to meet those _fucking_ brits, too.”

~*~

A couple of layers of makeup, a shower and an extra minute or so to pick the right outfit and it’s already two hours later. 11am. You trot down the hallway with your hands still aching by your sides. You try to concentrate. Try to think of what will you say to the cousins – from what Cider has told you, they have a major stick stuck up their ass. Well, that’s no surprise, really. You picture Kingsmen exactly as he had described: cold, like their weather, polite, but not honest, polished and of course, having a master’s degree in queuing. Also, Cider mentioned something about them being in a true gentleman(y) age. Which was quite a surprise, honestly, since most of the recruits working in Statesman are barely over twenty five. You fall into a small handful that is twenty one…You and Margarita. You guess that’s why you pick on her so much.

“ _Oi_.”

You have a sudden urge to roll your eyes so far back into your head that you are sure they might pop out. Tequila joins you (where exactly did he come from you have no idea – Statesmen have this sort of magical ability to just show up). He towers over you and is never afraid to exploit this advantage either to eye your cleavage, which is hidden at the moment, or to mess up your hairdo. His hand was already raising and you smack it away before it reaches you. Tequila snorts, “Pissy mood?”

“Shove it.”

“Hey, not my problem that Margarita nearly knocked you out.”

“Beginners luck.” You scoff.

“She ain’t exactly a beginner.” He states, “Maybe you’re losing your touch,--“

“-Maybe you should go fuck right off before I make you.”

He raises his hands in defence, slows his pace, “ _Woah_ , you wound me.”

“ _Oh_ , I wish I did.”

To an outsider this conversation would suggest that the two of you hate each other. And you do. But there is also this strange sense of familiarity, companionship, just two friends making fun of each other for the hell of it. Tequila can’t help the grin that spreads on his face, and you can’t help yourself either. The tension fades just as abruptly as it had come. The two of you turn a corner, this time led by peaceful silence. You with a quick step return once again to thinking how to act like a proper lady in front of those English Queen’s Messengers, and Tequila, lagging behind just a bit, eyes the way your hips sway. Both of you are thinking about something equally important.

Soon or not soon enough the office doors come into view and you feel a pang of excitement springs in your chest. You glance at Tequila. He tilts his favourite hat at you with a smile. You don’t return the gesture, merely turn to see the dark wood doors behind your future lies. The two of you stop. No sounds escape from the other side, and you have no idea if they’re talking or drinking or possibly both. With Champagne it’s usually multitasking, that’s one of the reasons you like and respect him so much.

“ _Oh_ for _fuck’s_ sake, (Name), just open the damn door.” Tequila sighs. You shoot him a displeased glance but comply; your fingers hook around the handle and with an uneasy heart you open the door fully. Your body drowns in sunshine and you have to squint. A pleasant ‘ _Oh’_ and ‘ _you’re here’_ from Champagne and you see him sitting in his chair with a cigar in hand. His attention then turns to the other end of the table and with a smile he motions to you and Channing standing by the door.

“Gentleman,” Champagne starts, “Some of my finest.”

Well, Cider wasn’t exactly wrong about their age, but damn did you not expect to see a slightly shorter male about your age looking like a proper British gentleman, just without wrinkles. You try not to stare, but it is a bit hard. He stands with poise, hands behind his back and his chin tilted in a way you can see the brilliant outline of his jaw. A smirk slowly rises to his lips once your eyes meet. Your brow ticks and you promptly look away, “That’s Tequila. A rowdy one, I suggest him on hand-to-hand missions, stealth ain’t really…his brand.”

“Damn right.” Channing agrees.

“And that’s…” Champagne’s eyes land on you, “ _Gin_.” He glances at the Cousins, “She blends with just about anyt _hing_ and any _one_. Be careful, though. The girl packs a punch.”

“And knows how to take one.” Tequila adds.

Champagne chuckles, “Ain’t that right? Sit down, you two. I’d like to give you a heads-up.” The two of you obey without a word in protest. Tequila sits on Champagne’s left; you go sit a few chairs back on his right. “So, I and my humble guests have been discussing a mission. In London, to be specific. Now, neither of you have been overseas yet, so that’s why I recommended you. It is their choice, however, which one of you to pick.” Instantly, your gaze shoots to the three men at the end of the table. Your eyes narrow – you recognise one! Gala _bad_ …Gala _sad_? _Mad_?—What’s the difference?! You remember Ginger mentioning finding an agent wounded when this whole Valentine business took place. Sadly, you were in LA at that time on a romantic getaway with your ex-boyfriend. Looks like agent Galahwatever is fine after all.

“And…” You pipe up, “What exactly is the mission?”

Champagne shrugs, “Only one of you will find out, I’m afraid.”

~*~

Evening. The bar is rowdy with customers and country music blares from the old jukebox by the door with such flare and passion that one would think it was brand new. Some men by the pool table score and cheer, glasses clink and a few crash to the ground and shatter into a thousand glistering pieces. The bartender, Caroline, sends one last wink your way before she throws a dirty rag over her shoulder and moves away from the counter and you take her place. You smile down at your new partner, Galahad Junior, sitting on a stool right in front of you. He eyes the glass you gave him: a cold clear liquid with frosty ice sizzling at its bottom, smelling of _Sprite_ and having a carefully sliced lime in its corner. You hold up one, too.

“Are all of you Statesmen working part time as bartenders?” He asks.

You tick a brow, “We all know how to make our drinks. Tequila is a master of shots, Wine picks out the best cheese to go along with his glass and _I_ …” You motion to the glass in your hand, “Make a killer Gin and Tonic. _Careful_ , though. Might be a bit too strong for you.” He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth with a mildly-amused expression. You take a shy sip. The alcohol burns the inside of your mouth, filling your nostrils with its sharp taste and sliding down your throat like a warm, fuzzy snake. Galahad follows in your example.

“Not bad.” He says.

You shrug, “And how about you? Are all Kingsmen tailors?” You lean onto the counter, “Will you make me a custom suit, Galahad _Junior_?”

“It’s Eggsy, and the only thing I can do is take your suit _off_.”

“A generous invitation that I will have to decline, Egi.”

“ _Eggsy_.”

“Whatever.” You mumble into your drink.

“And you?” He pesters, “Was your name?”

“(Name).” You introduce, “Don’t get used to saying it, though. You’ll know me only as _Gin_.”

“Why’s that?”

“We’re _not_ friends, Galahad.” You state, “And I doubt that we will be.”

“ _Oh_?” He raises a brow; the corner of his lip curls into a tiny smirk, “I bet after five of these-“ He motions to his drink, “we’ll be the best of friends the world has ever known.”

“How early is our flight, again?”

“Depends on how early you want to back out.” He grins, “C’mon, call your bartender friend and tell her to keep ‘em comin’, yea? I think we’re gonna take a while.”

You smirk, “God save the Queen.” You toast.

“And bless America.”

Your glasses clink. It seems like a long night is ahead of you.


	2. custom suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which you go to london

With a small smile you slowly fold a white blouse, make sure no wrinkles will form once it’s stuck in your suitcase for a couple of hours, before setting it neatly down into the big leather case with the rest of your belongings. You have been packing all morning, awoken at about 9 am, or about four hours after you returned from the bar with Eggsy. As far as you know he’s still dead asleep and probably hungover. You, however, being Agent Gin (damn that sounds cool) hardly feel anything at all regarding your brand of alcohol. Folding clothes is calming. You usually find packing tedious and you just throw everything in in whatever style and then pray that your suitcase will magically close, but this time you’re taking extra care. Possibly because you’re still a bit tipsy. And you were told by Champagne to make the best impression possible.

The two secret agencies had their fair share of disagreements over the years. The Valentine business caused a big falling out when they couldn’t decide which one should act, and both ended up trying to solve the issue separately and, well…A lot of people died. A lot of Statesman agents lost their lives, including Brandy, Sherry, Mead, Gin and many _many_ more…You were promoted to Gin right after you finished training. Originally you had your eyes set on Palm Wine, but the agency suffered such heavy loses they took the best they had and placed them in powerful positions.

You are a good spy, you would possible be even better if you had enough time to actually train. You weren’t exactly as great of a shot as Tequila, nor could you use the lasso as expertly as Whiskey, but what you could do is charm your way into any situation possible. Granted, if you tried hard enough and you usually didn’t so besides ‘ _Gin’_ people also call you a ‘ _Sarcastic Asshole’_. You are quick to pick up accents, mimics; a thing you used to practice quite often back when you were just a little kid. You are a fairly good fighter, better than Margarita for sure, but you doubt you could take on any of the leading agents one on one. You wonder just how good Eggsy is. Normally you would’ve evaluated him already, but the Gin and Tonic is giving you a hard time.

 _Huh_. So maybe you aren’t _that_ resistant to it after all.

A knock on your door draws you out your thoughts and with a quick motion you shut the suitcase and click its locks shut. The door opens behind you and from the heavy steps you immediately recognise the person – Channing. That or you really are still drunk. Turning around you reward yourself with an invisible pat on the back - it is him after all! – and cross your arms over your chest. He leans onto the doorway, examines your room for a moment before his gaze falls onto you. A smile. He tilts his hat.

“Well lookie here, good mornin’, Gin. Thought you’d still be snorin’.”

“Tequila.”

“All packed up?”

You motion to the case behind you, “Just finished.”

He narrows his eyes at you, “Are my ears deceiving me, or are you actually nice for once?”

“Don’t get used to it.” You state, “It’s only because I will miss you so much when I go away.”

He grins, “Will you now?”

“No.”  You finish dryly, grasping the handle of your suitcase and mentally cringing on how heavy it is. Okay, perhaps taking so many ‘fancy’ clothes is a bit unnecessary, but you couldn’t help yourself. It will be your first time abroad and a real serious mission. Your first mission, to be exact.

Yeah, you’ve been Gin for barely two months.

Channing ignores your comment skilfully and motions to your suitcase, “Need some help?”

“Not really, but you can help yourself out of my way.” Your comment makes him laugh and you squeeze out a small grin of your own. With a quick step he allows you to pass and you do. The corridors are mostly empty. You meet Cider on your way out and he wishes you luck with a wave. You only nod. Before you know it, you are outside.

A bit cloudy. You suppose Kentucky is trying to ease you into the British weather. A parked car is the first thing you see; the second one is Eggsy sitting by the wheel. Neither Merlin nor Galahad Senior is present, and you guess they’re already home and awaiting your arrival. Much to your surprise Eggsy seems fine, though you do notice that his eyes seem a bit droopy and he is a bit pale. Throwing your suitcase into the trunk you shut it and move to sit down when—

“(Name)!” A squeaky voice calls after you and you snap your head to the entrance. Stacy Simons, with a bandaged lower lip and a black eye, smiles at you. You raise a brow.

“Mar…garita?”  You greet, unsure.

“I just…I just wanted to wish you luck and all…” She finishes dryly. You nod with an awkward smile.

“Well, thanks…You keep them’ boys on their toes while I’m gone, yeah?”

“ _O_ -Oh, of course! Have a safe trip!” She exclaims before ducking behind the door and disappearing. Still confused whether that really happened or not, you sit down and Eggsy, without wasting another second, turns the car’s engine on and presses the acceleration.

“Margarita?” He inquires, “Thought you Statesman had names of actual alcohol, not cocktails.”

“Listen, Egi,” You start, taking out your sunglasses and putting them on, “I am a bit sad that no one ever told you, but…” You look at him, “Size _does_ matter. The more agents we have, the more mission we can do, and the more lives we can save. So what if there is a Cosmopolitan or Mojito running around! If, for instance, I meet my early demise, Margarita could theoretically take my place.” You finish explaining and he just shakes his head at you with a small smile. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Fan- _bloody_ -tastic. And you?”

 _Nervous. Fine until I saw your face. The sun is physically hurting me._ “Brilliant.” Your attempt to mimic a British accent is met with mocking laughter and you give him the cut-eye, “Completely unrelated, but can I ask you something?”

“Yea?”

“Do all brits sound like they have a cock in their mouth when they speak?”

He snorts, “Why?” His eyes shoot from the road to you, “That desperate that you’re actually hearing it now?”

“ _Ha_! You wish.”

Eggsy is quiet for a single moment of consideration, before a smirk rises to his lips, “Maybe.”

Okay, this is not how you expected your morning to go.

~*~

Britain doesn’t feel that different, that much you’d admit. At first you figured you’d at least complain about the weather, about how the air feels musky and cold, but to tell the upmost truth you feel no different than when you were in Kentucky, perhaps more tired but in every way shape and form – fine. You did, however, take a liking to the new scenery: the polished architecture, conjoined houses and their perfect white fenced gardens, a couple of old-school cars parked in the posh side of London. It was easy to get lost in this world; the light drizzle of rain acted as an active comfort inducing substance and you almost melted into the leather seat of the car. You will enjoy your time here, you realized, you most certainly will.

Not until you reached the famous ‘Kingsman’ tailor shop did you glance at Eggsy – he was, for the most part, keeping his eyes on the road and still reaping the fruits of his nightly endeavours aka he was still hungover and now jet-lagged too. He parked the car and you unbuckled your seatbelt. Finally, after so many hours, you stretched your legs on British soil. Tilting your head to the side you eyed the suits neatly presented in the display. You don’t have such uniforms at Statesman, and for a brief moment you wondered will you be made one as a gift from one agency to another.

“Welcome to Kingsman.” Eggsy said, coming to stand by your side. He caught our gaze and smiled, well _smirked_ , before hopping up the stone steps and opening the door for you like a true gentleman. You saved the urge to roll your eyes, bit back any comments and simply walked straight in, ready for whatever was waiting for you inside.

The briefing was quick. You met up with Merlin in the counselling room and listened carefully to the details. Not as exciting as you expected: you and Galahad Junior are expected to carry an expensive jewel that used to belong to the Queen and safely displace it in Italy, Rome. There was also something about assassination, but you missed that part. But apparently this black pearl, so small it’s barely the size of your pinkie’s nail, holds such great history that many fractions and black markets may want it. The instructions were to carry it around at all times: no shipping, no leaving it. It’s important to the Royal family. At least…of what’s left of it.

“I don’t get it.” You say after the meeting is over to your new partner for a couple of weeks at the very least, “Isn’t the Queen…dead?”

Eggsy gives you a strange look, one torn between amusement and disgust “About that, yea? Best not to mention the Queen to most folk. It’s a touchy subject.” He explains. You doubt _he_ actually cares all that much, but it must be a British thing. Damn that Valentine, ruining everything for everyone.

The interior is exquisite and it almost rivals with Statesman’s main HQ. You can’t help but awe at the glistering wooden ornaments, statues of men you have never even seen in your life but they look important so you gaze at them with respect, the expensive cloths laying around, suits, bowties, ties…Everything a tailor can dream about, or a man with an extensive wallet. Eggsy leads you forward and you follow like a lost puppy.

“ _So_ …” He stops next to dressing room ‘1’, “How about that suit?”

You blink, feel a rush of confusion as your focus falls to him from the impressive portrait of a man with a goatee, “ _What_?”

Eggsy opens the door, “You wanted a custom suit, yea? Or was it the alcohol takin’?” He looks sneaky and smug and if those glasses weren’t hiding his eyes you are positive you’d see mischief glisten in them. Your brows knit together forming soft lines between them. You glance at the gentleman by the counter with a metre thrown over his shoulder.

“You mean…” You trail, “He will make me one? If I asked?”

“Just get in, yea?” He doesn’t wait for your answer simply enters the small secluded room and you have no choice but to follow. The man behind the counter gives you a smile, as if the interaction between you and Eggsy never happened.

He shuts the door once you’re in. The room emits a strange musky scent, almost like cologne, the warm yellow glow of lamps bounces off the green walls and a wide mirror reflects both you and your partner, full length, exposing all of your and his details in brilliant light. You don’t fail to catch Eggsy’s smile, nor do you fail to notice him taking out a metre of his own.

You raise a brow, “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” He shoots, “I’m sorry, love, but we have nothing here for ladies if you haven’t notice already.” He fixes his glasses and takes a step forward; with the tips of his fingers he gently presses the metre from your right shoulder to your left, his eyes trailing it carefully to make sure your measurements are correct.

“Don’t you have any female agents?” You inquire.

“Well,” He stops for a moment, “We have Roxy. Not many other that I know of.” And continues measuring.

“Wooow,” You bleat, “That’s sad.”

“Lift your arms, please.” He mumbles off-handed and you comply without a second thought. He ties the metre around your bust. A positive nod comes from him a second later and you surpass a sigh.

“You didn’t tell me you are actually a trained tailor.” You say as he crouches to measure just how long your legs are.

“Fuck if I know how to sow, but can’t be that hard, can it?”

 


	3. mission 1: accepted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which you and eggsy break into a bank

The heavy drumming of rain is soothing, it mimics the tunes of your favourite song as it taps on the glass windows of the conference room. Outside the glass is an indistinguishable mess of dark grey colours that create a rather abstract and eerie painting. Though, the comforting glow of warm yellow lamps dismiss any and all un-pleasantries of the weather and the drowsiness that comes with it.

 “…Can you speak proper English?”

“Yis I can spek propa Englesh.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“Nonsense, I was making fun of you this whole time.”

You and Eggsy Unwin had been at it since morning, since before the pour had started. He was told to help you with your accent so you could fit in better – you honestly didn’t understand why so much secrecy, it’s not like being American is illegal. But alas, you had agreed and now facing the torment of him pronouncing words like ‘Cat’ ‘Dog’ ‘Fuck’ ‘Arseface’ and so on and you, like a child in grade school, repeating after him in a monotonous tone. It became boring after five minutes for you. Eggsy, however, seemed to find immense amusement in you butchering the British accent.

You are waiting for Merlin to show up with the details of your mission. To say you are anxious is an understatement – behind the façade of mild-amusement directed at your partner, you boil on the inside. You had never been so nervous in your entire life, not even during exams when you were training to become a Statesman. You almost didn’t want Merlin to come just for the sole reason that you’d have to finally face the reality of the situation: you are alone in London with men you see for the first time in your life on a mission that will most likely bring you closer to death than you ever bargained for. You even pondered about contacting Tequila – he, besides Ginger, is the only other person you hang out with – but hurriedly dismissed that idea. He’d have a field day if you were to call him. You can’t give him the satisfaction.

“Agents.” Merlin’s thick accent makes you jerk and you snap your head to the entrance where he stands with his tablet in hand. You glance at Eggsy – he relaxes in his seat, fixes his glasses. Looks like the pronunciation lesson is over. You ponder should you stand up or not, after all you are sitting in a seat that doesn’t belong to you and if other Kingsmen are called to this meeting… Before you can do much Merlin nods at you, most likely sensing your distress, and moves closer to the table, typing something into his tablet. “I hope you are ready to leave at a moment’s notice, because the Royal Bank closes in a couple of hours.”

You blink, “The Royal Bank?” Merlin lifts his gaze up to you.

“Yes. Is there a problem, agent?”

“Why do we need to go to The Royal Bank? Do we need credits, or something? Budget cutbacks?”

“Well, you don’t actually think we have the pearl, do you?”

Eggsy straightens up; “Wait” He interrupts, “Are you tellin’ us we’ll have to fucking steal it?”

“ _Yes_ that is exactly what I’m telling you.” Merlin states harshly, “Are you two deaf or something? The Royal Bank doesn’t actually belong to the Royal family; theoretically, all ties it has is the name. Is the pearl with the Royal family? No. Does that mean you’ll have to retrieve it? Yes.”

“So…we’re here to plan a bank heist?” You inquire.

“Heist, rescue mission – call it what you want it, the point is that pearl needs to be back in this building by six o’clock sharp.”

“Oh, so we have a deadline now, too?” Eggsy crosses his arms over his chest.

“That’s because your target is having a dinner party at eight.” There’s a tad of amusement in Merlin’s voice as he takes out an envelope and slides it over to you, “And congratulations! You two are invited.” You and Eggsy share a look, “We’ll talk about parties after you get the Black Pearl from one of the safest vaults in London, though. Now…care for some details? I recon they’ll be useful.”

~*~

“You scared?” Eggsy asks you, standing close, shoulder to shoulder in fact, as he tilts his head softly with a smirk. The two of you enter through the Royal Bank’s main doors. Your eyes immediately shoot around the impressive interior, though not to awe at it – you trail the camera’s staring directly at you. The red carpet underneath your short heels seems to sink you in and for a split second you are nervous, are afraid and completely immobile. You stop walking and Eggsy does too; He smiles at the woman by the reception desk that asks you what business the two of you are having. Finally turning away from the security camera’s you look at her, look into her eyes that gaze at you with polite kindness and offer a charming smile of your own.

“Yes, hello,” You say with a perfect accent. You surpass the urge to smirk at Eggsy’s expense, “We’re here to see Miss Solace.” You explain casually, not a shred of anxiety in your voice despite the ever growing lump in your throat.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” The receptionist replies “See we’re closing soon, and we’re not allowed to take in customers. But, if you were to come back tomorrow—“

“We won’t take up long.” You reassure her, turning to Eggsy and grasping his hand, “My husband and I just need to sign so papers, is all.”

“I’m sorry, Miss, but really, _I_ —“

“Listen, sweetheart. My name is Elenor Davies and my flight to the Bahama’s leaves in two hours. See I really, _really_ need this brand new yacht to show off to my colleagues and I _can’t_ get it when the bank refuses to do its job properly.” You state coldly, “You _want_ to do your job properly, _don’t you_? Check me on the list. I’m a loyal customer, and once you find me, and I am _sure_ you will, I will magically forget this fiasco and move on with my day and you’ll even get to keep your job. Is that clear?” The poor receptionist nods slowly, not entirely convinced, and starts typing. You turn to whisper to Eggsy, “Put me on the list.”

For a few short moments there is nothing but typing and clicking heard and your impatience grows rapidly. Furthermore, you’re still holding onto Eggsy with a grip that tightens as seconds pass without you even realizing it. Not that he minds all that much. He simply stands close as you tap your fingers on the receptionist desk, mildly amused and impressed that you managed to master the brit accent so quickly. In a couple of hours, actually. Perhaps you aren’t that bad after all. In turn of looks, you’re not hard to look at. In turns of attitude, well, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like ‘em feisty. Eggsy figured your sarcasm came from confidence since you always talked with your nose high in the air. But now…As he watches you fidget it slowly dawns onto him that you really aren’t all that confident, and his question you failed to answer, the one that was meant as a jab, turns out to be completely true. Yes, you are scared. He doesn’t know a lot about you, but now and now only he can tell that you are absolutely new to this. You are scared, but you’re fighting it. And he feels just a bit more proud to be your partner.

The receptionist eyes slowly widen and she looks up from hr computer screen, “ _Oh_ , Mrs and Mr Davies, my apologies, I didn’t—“

“Save it.” You tell her off, “Now punch me a ticket at let me see Solace.”

“Sure thing,” With that, she presses the machine and a paper with the number 52 shoots out. She hands it to you with a smile, “Should I inform Miss Solace—“

“No need, we had brunch last Thursday.” You finish dryly, grasping the ticket and wishing the receptionist a good day before trotting off with Eggsy in toll. You make a bee-line for the elevator. Punching the ‘12’ you finally let go of his hand, glancing at him before you come to stare at the metal doors. “And to answer your question…I’m not scared of anything.”

“ _Oh_?” He inquires with a raised brow. The doors open and the two of you step inside. Chilly. The wide mirror reflects your brand new bullet proof tailored suit; dark and light brown colours compliment your skin tone, the non-prescription glasses frame your face and conceal your lying eyes from the world. It looks made for you, granted it _was_ made for you. Measurements had to be taken twice since Eggsy is not that great of a tailor after all. He did, however, mention something about your suit looking a lot like Roxy’s. “Smile to the camera’s.” He suddenly says, drawing you out your thoughts. Glancing up you see the small security camera, having a glowing red dot on its side, abruptly turn a deep green. The Kingsmen have infiltrated the system.

“I really hope Merlin is watching down on us, like a guardian angel.”

Eggsy snorts, “Merlin? _Angel_? You mental?”

“No,” You say, turning to him, “but after this mission’s over I’m ninety percent sure I will be.”

A cheerful ‘ _ding’_ echoes in the secluded area and a breath gets caught in your lungs; the tips of your fingers numb lightly. Eggsy clears his throat and fixes his tie. The metal doors finally part and a musky fragrance, pleasant, though unusual, greets your nose and you inhale cautiously. The corridor is bright and open and few people buzz around with stacks of papers in their hands; no yet dare to meet you eye to eye, then again, the two of you don’t dare to get off the elevator. Finally, Eggsy takes a first step and you tag along in fear of being left behind. Glass windows reveal the whole of London: it’s magnificent, though grey, scenery and sad blue skies. It almost feels like the walls are closing in on you. Your nerves are starting to show, and when one worker smiles at you, you merely look down and shuffle past him with urgency.

Solace’s office isn’t that far off – only ten meters, your glasses inform you. Dark carpeting under your feet leaves imprints of your shoes on it. Perhaps you wouldn’t be that nervous, or not nervous at all of that matter, if you knew exactly what you were going to do. Merlin only gave the key information; how you are to retrieve the pearl is entirely up to interpretation. Eggsy likes spontaneous plans and doing everything at a minutes notice. You know he does, you watched him closely on the way to the bank. How he tapped his foot, tried to conceal his smile as he gazed out the window. That or he simply thought you couldn’t take your eyes off of him for other reasons.

Eggsy hooks his fingers around the glass handle, sends you one last look and you meet it with a light nod. He pulls it open, motioning for you to go in first and you reward him with an ironic smile. The office is spacious, enriched with open views and some expensive decorations that show status, rather than actual appreciation for the arts. Solace, a tall woman with a knot of black hair on her head and sharp, narrow eyes, sits in her chair typing away on her laptop. For a second she looks up; her eyes portray alarm but soon a polite smile graces her lips and she is about to open her mouth to greet you two and possibly inquire why are you here. Before she can say anything you lift your hand and your watch – a gift from Kingsman – shoots her with a tranquilizer. There is a note of surprise on her face before it smacks into the desk.

A whistle from behind you, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.” Eggsy comments as he steps past you and in quick strides reaches the unconscious Solace, “You recon where the Pearl might be?” He asks, with one finger, quite lazily at that, flipping papers that lay on her desk.

“If it’s really that important,” You start, fixing your watch; you spin the hour hand counter-clockwise two times before it clicks, informing you that it is ready to hack at a moment’s notice, “then think of a place that’s shitting out security. Not electronic either. My guess is there are guards all over the lower floors, in the vaults.”

“You think one of us should go down there?”

You nod, “Safest bet. Pretend to be an employee, or something.” You mumble, pacing to the laptop. Gently, you grasp Solace’s wrist and place it away from the keyboard. Angling your watch, you press the crown. The computers screen turns black and whirls with indistinguishable code.

“You do it.”

You blink, “What?”

“You have a higher chance of convincing them.” He explains. You raise a brow.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you look like a person that would actually work here.”

“What?! No I don’t! If anything, you look like a banker with your posh suit, stupid glasses and your head up your ass.”

“Exactly. Why would I go down to the vaults?”

You hate that he actually makes sense for once. You don’t verbally express your agreement, merely grumble something incomprehensible and look back at the screen, trying to ignore his triumphant smile. Finally, a few messages pop up, security camera angles and you surpass a cuss once you note the tight security. Pressing some sort of alarm would immediately cause panic – this whole secrecy business is very important, if not then you and Eggsy could’ve easily barged in, guns blazing. But you are no criminals. Even if, technically, what you’re committing now is a crime.

“Vault 641…” You read off.

“--Is the location of the Black Pearl.” Eggsy finishes over your shoulder. When did he come so close? His chest barely grazes your back, hands planted right next to yours on the table, but he shows no acknowledgement of invading your personal space; rather he stays focused, skimming the lines of information. You tilt your head to get a better look at him, frankly you have never seen him from this close, nor have you wanted to, but now that you have a chance you can’t help but admire his boyish features that are coated with lines of worry, healthy young eyes that hold a certain heaviness of loss and pain, the bags under his eyes, barely visible, but still there, that inform of many sleepless nights he has had up until this point. And you aren’t exactly sure when his autumn sky blue eyes connected with yours, but once they did you felt a spur in your chest, one you simply could not explain. You note the corner of his lip curl into a smirk, “Fancy the view?”

“The outside is lovely, thanks.” You mumble as you look away.

“Wasn’t talkin’ about that.”

With a roll of your eyes you reach into your breast pocket and take out a pen. Eggsy’s eyes widen and he takes a cautious jump back, “Woah!” He exclaims, “I was only fuckin’ jokin’, calm yourself, yea?”

You give him a puzzled look, “What?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘ _what’_?” He repeats, “That fuckin’ pen is for poisoning.”

“You brits have pens that poison?” You utter, “Fascinating…” You add hurriedly before continuing, “It’s a vocal transmitter.” You explain. Eggsy doesn’t appear to be following. You sigh, “Look, when I get down into the vaults I’m going to say that Solace sent me. They will call, and you will answer. With this,” you hand him the pen, “your voice will morph into hers.” You press the cap and the pen clicks, “First, you press it to her throat, here.” You point at your pulse, right below your jaw, “Then, to yourself. Congratulations, you assumed a new identity for exactly sixty minutes.”

“You mean to tell me this pen, to be clear, Statesman pen, not the killing Kingsman pen, is goin’ to turn me into petite lady Solace over here?” He asks, eyeing the object cautiously.

“Just your voice.” You clarify, “Make sure to do it correctly, though. Or else we’re both fucked.”

~*~

The elevator went ways down quickly and the temperature dropped with each story. Finally, you were underground, and when the metal doors opened for the umpteenth time that day what greeted you was no view of London or another impressive sight; hard empty walls secured the area, narrow corridors, cameras, vaults in heavy metal doors, locked from inside and out, and guarded by few pacing men that are even less friendly than they seem. With a nervous inhale of cold air you step onto the concrete floor. A glass door with a guard post is what you first see, an old man sitting in his post and lazily staring at the small screen – is it camera footage or a re-run of some old TV show you have no clue. His eyes shift from it to you, they pierce you and you instantly feel a lump starting to form in your throat. Trying to remain confident you pace to him, hand him a card you took from Solace and explain, “Miss Solace sent me to check up on Vault 641. Apparently the clients have become restless. They fear that someone might’ve…taken _it_.”

The guard skims the light blue card with numbers on it, then types something in his machine before he looks up at you, “Where’s your nametag?” He inquires; his eyes narrow with suspicion and you can tell he’s holding his finger just above the emergency button.

“Left it at the break room along with my wet clothes.” You explain, “A car splashed me on the way here. It was a mess, really. Miss Solace requested a check-up as soon as I entered. We both know how demanding she can get.” You continue to ramble, “Call her, if you need.”

He gives you no reply, just punches a few numbers and leans onto the microphone, “Miss Solace, there’s a---“ He looks at you expectantly.

“Jude Law.” You blur.

“-A Jude Law here. She says you ordered to a check-up on Vault 641.”

“Yes.” A squeaky voice from the other end replies, “Yes I did. Let her through to get it over with; Law here still needs to bring me my latte.”

“Just checking in, ma’am.” The guard finishes and the line goes dead. He gives you one hard look, unreadable, but still cautious, before slowly standing up and leaving his post. The clear glass doors open after a moment and a chill goes through you. Finally, you’re in.

As he leads you through the confusing corridors – he refuses to make conversation, or look at you for that matter; - you hardly contain your grin as you recall how different Eggsy’s voice sounded. You hope Merlin heard that. You also hope he will never let Eggsy live that down. The guard nods at a few armed men as they pass; you try to ignore their stinging looks on the back of your neck.

After sometime you stop next to the Vault with ‘641’ carved on it. Your fingertips tater; cold, you feel cold and your suit does little in terms of providing warmth. It’s almost like wearing a summer jacket in a winter blizzard. The guard looks at the key-pad, then at you, “You know the code?”

You shake your head, “I’m not authorized.”

Finally, you see a hint of trust in his old eyes – so you have done something right after all. You give yourself an imaginary pat on the back, after all, if you had not listened during today’s briefing you would be in deep shit right about now. He punches in the code and the door depressurises, jumps out a bit so that the guard can grab its handle and, with little strength, fully open it. With butterflies rising in your chest you fiddle with your watch again; it sets itself to ‘ _darts’_ again and you wait for an opportunity.

If your calculations are correct, the guards you passed should’ve made their way to the post by now and will turn back at a moment’s notice. If you put Mr Post Guard to sleep now, you could get away with this without anyone realizing it was you. Until, of course, his body is discovered and the alarms flare.

Having a clear thought in mind, you poke your head through the door and—

“It’s…gone?”


End file.
